Enter Lucifer

Enter Lucifer
By Jamie Williams



The frosted grass crunched in broken blades under the thick steps of Iving Byrum. His daunting ice blue eyes mirrored the lamp post, who’s light seemed suffocated by the fog of winter that wrapped it’s icy tendrils around the small flame.
A clock in the square called to its’ people. 11:00 pm. Close your windows, lock your doors, say a prayer perhaps. ‘Lest the Pure Bloods roam.
Iving peered about the abandoned streets, feeling a sense of forlorn and freedom envelope his being. He wasn’t afraid, mere stories were told in this dreary old town for years, and not a soul went missing. Then again, not a soul went out this late at night either.
A moan echoed on the night breeze and Iving turned to gaze around the deserted plaza. All his sight beheld was that of new fallen snow, slowly drifting like cotton to it’s demise. Clutching his brown leather tight to him the young adolescent crept deeper into the powdered plaza of Loridge. The moaning slowly came to a crescendo that matched a woman’s voice.
It carried out on the still night like a wolf’s howl, dripping with pain and agony. Iving spun around, all about him. Scanning allies, rooftops, benches, steps, anything to find the source of the cries. Then he slipped and his ankle screamed with burning indignation. The fool, it cried! Blistered red and dying the snow in a crimson bath.
Iving groaned, slowly coming to the realization of the pain climbing though his spin and into his throbbing mind. But when his eyes opened he saw not the moon and its’ falling companion of snow fall, simply the face of a porcelain doll.
She stared down at him with a face so pure and untainted that not even Da’Vinci himself could behold such a master piece. Her hair shined like endless ebony that cascaded perfectly over her shoulders and with eyes shaped like finely crafted tea leaves that held a deep earthy tone. A deep, soul enchanting brown.
“Are you hurt?” She spoke like a ringing bell, staring through him, as though not taking in the person itself.
“.. Yes, I am” Iving admitted painfully and with a flushed embarrassment.
“Madeline.” She spoke once again and gave a smile on her lips that shamed the red rose. “You may call me Madeline.” With a soft hand she pulled him up with the force of a man not in her physic.
“I’m Iving Byrum. Did you hear a girl crying?” As beautiful as Madeline was the awful moans of the girl still echoed throughout his memory, blotting out any admiration for the porcelain maiden at the moment.
Madeline nodded with a thoughtful glance, “Yes. It was me.” Before Iving could reply the young woman seemed to already begin welling with ice kissed tears. “You see, I lost someone precious to me. In this town. Long, long ago.”
Suddenly Iving was draped in fine silk clothe as the woman threw her arms about him in a miserable plea for refugee and comfort in the sanctuary of his arms, and once again his ears rung with the beaten down cry of a lonely and abandoned woman.


He stroked her flawless, midnight shimmering hair and felt her rest gently on his shoulder, weeping inaudible tones of some lost child.
Then reality sank into him. They plunged, layer after layer into his vascular tissue. Madeline held him to her and laid the boy in the snow, her robes covering his weak and choked cries for help in the deep winter night. His eyes rolled from the dim lamppost into an extinguished darkness. His conscious driven to the edge of oblivion and existence.
This was a Pure Blood.
His mouth became dry and his skin felt cold, blood no longer existed. No longer ran though his veins with life giving brilliance. Instead it rested on and down the endless throat of the maiden named Madeline.

Madeline cleaned her ruby lips and smiled down at the dying boy, and with a sympathetic heart she bit down into her own porcelain flesh. The pain was real, the wound oozing and festering with ruby gloss that dripped into the open mouth of Iving Byrum.
“Sweet boy,” She said, raising his heavy head to her wrist. Iving licked his dry lips and felt his mouth burn. The devil’s blood burned through his senses and down his throat. Like a ravenous wolf hungry for the virgin he lunged and bit down onto her divine white flesh and fed.
Wincing in her pain Madeline stroked Iving’s deep oak hair that fell in tangles, she smelled smoke in his aura and a killer in his soul. Like a vice her hands gripped his tangles and ripped the beast from her, like a tick from a dog’s stomach.
Iving fell in the now thick snow and gagged the wretched crimson blood and began to convulse in a manner he couldn’t control. A way that maddened and sickened him to the core. “Wh-“ He gagged and blood spluttered into the white blanket, “What have you done to me?!”
The Porcelain Pure Blood smiled and held her tender wrist, “I made you mine. My little Lucifer.”
“That’s not my name..” The boy mumbled on a cloud of frost. “That’s not mine..”
“Then who are you, Lucy?”
He was at a loss. Who was he. What was his name and his family. Had he always been this way? His mind was blank and his eyes new, like a child gazing at the world for the first time. He heard everything. The breeze sang to him, the clock in the square ticked in a rhythm he never heard. The mocking bird sang through the snow.
He did know her name, though. Madeline. But, that was all he knew.
The Pure Blood smiled and stood, the boy following her gesture like an obedient child. “I am Lucifer.”
“That you are,” She gazed at the waxing moon and then at him with the deepest eyes. Lucifer felt as though he had known them forever, and wanted to keep it that way.
“It could be worse,” She winked and took his hand. “You could smell like feces and be covered with an oxen’s hair,”
Werewolf joke. Lucy knew and laughed, having a feeling he’d be hearing a lot of them now.